The Empty House
by WhereInspirationLeads
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is coming to terms with Sherlock's death, resuming his mundane life in what feels like an empty flat. John is sick and tired of normality. But he is also left yearning for it after what happens next... This will be a long fic, updated each week. I welcome any reviews!
1. Chapter 1

John sat on the misshapen sofa and stared without seeing at the bullet-hole ridden wall. The yellow lurid smile of cartoon graffiti seemed to blur his vision. Or maybe that was...he blinked. No, no tears. Just emptiness. It felt like something had been extracted from him without his ever realising it existed in the first place. He felt the air seep out of his lungs and heard the sigh as if from another man's chest. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he wanted it to be. He didn't want this emptiness to continue. He felt useless; more useless than returning from the war injured. What could he do now, what would he do, he thought, as he sat in quiet contemplation. Quiet contemplation, a little voice in his head reminded him, masking utter despair. He glanced up dazedly, taking in the flat. Before, the fingers on the kitchen counter hadn't bothered him, the harpoon in the corner was a mere antique. Now, the objects returned to their more sinister connotations. It was their connection to ... to Sherlock that made their presence acceptable, an eccentricity, even the macabre became endearing because of the animated manner Sherlock talked about his 'experiments'. 221B hadn't changed, but somehow, in John's mind, it had. It was like waking up with a hangover, free of beer-goggles. The skull leered at him, the body parts from St Bart's that John knew still resided in their fridge seemed to mock him with their existence, the violin ...

The violin.

_At 4am, waking him up to the dramatic overture of one of Mozart's symphonies (or so he was informed later, John recalled telling Sherlock he didn't care if it was Mozart himself returning from the dead and plucking bow strings with his arse, it was 4 am for fucks sake and he wanted to sleep.) Sherlock's disparaging comments about idiots unable to appreciate beautiful music._

_Sherlock's hands as they returned to the strings, putting the bow aside._

_Sherlock plucking the strings softly, and then launching into a sarcastic rendition of a lullaby, with certain word replacements._

_John telling him to bugger off and take up a quiet hobby like knitting._

The violin.

He blinked. Everywhere he looked in this flat he recalled memories of Sherlock. Sherlock being obnoxious, Sherlock being rude, Sherlock being witty, Sherlock insulting Anderson..._the one time when Sherlock called Lestrade and his entire division over to report a sexual predator only to show them rather graphic and questionable porn files apparently from Anderson's own home computer (given the argument that ensued...)_

He couldn't _do_ this. He couldn't be here, wallowing in memories. Because sooner or later, he would remember the last time he saw Sherlock, broken and bleeding, his face a mess, the limbs lifeless.

More blood, more bodies blurred his vision. The war. He had lost people before. He would lose them again. But something, something was somehow worse about this. Perhaps it was the way it happened. Perhaps it was that he was losing not only a friend, but a flatmate, perhaps it was the way that everyone else believe he was, he was... not Sherlock. A fake. A weirdo. A psychopath . _"I'm not a psychopath Anderson, I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research"_ swam into his head and out again. Was he though? A Sociopath? He showed all the signs of it, sure, but John would have liked to believe that...that there was more.

He needed to get out. He put on his coat, grabbed a scarf – it was cold- and left. He was halfway across the street when he realised he forgot to lock the door, and that the building was probably empty at this hour, Ms Hudson was spending a lot of time with the man from the local newsagents lately. He was two streets away when he realised he should have gone back to lock it. But what for? None of it mattered now. The world wouldn't end because his laptop got nicked, the world came to a close on the precipice of a rooftop, when Sherlock...when he left him. A chill breeze wrapped itself around him and he pulled the scarf tighter around his neck.

It smelt like...

It was one of Sherlock's.

And then he saw the street start to blur slightly.

But he hugged the scarf tighter around his neck as he realised he would never, never be close to Sherlock again enough to recognise his scent, and that eventually all his things would get washed and nothing would be left of his presence, his, his friend.

"You had to go and die on me didn't you..?" he mouthed into the material, which was now a little damp.

And he walked on, not caring where he was going, cursing Sherlock.

For leaving him.

The heartless bastard.


	2. Chapter 2

Five months later, and John still hadn't moved out of 221B. By this point, he had managed to remove or box up some of Sherlock's things, or rather, he had let Ms Hudson move some of Sherlock's things. (John had however, felt compelled to remove some of the remnants of Sherlock's nastier experiments himself, for the sake of common decency and hygiene.)

Every day was a bleak blur. It wasn't as if his world stopped turning when Sherlock died- but it was as if all the interesting went out of it. His days were filled with the mundane, average trifles of some former life. He resorted to the half-hearted smiles, the nonchalant small talk he had perfected upon his return from Afghanistan. He returned to his averagely paid work- he couldn't afford to keep the flat on his own, he knew, but Ms Hudson kept telling him not to worry- John had a sinking feeling Mycroft was involved. He got a sick churning sensation in his stomach when he thought of the man, when he thought of him practically handing over Sherlock's life story on a plate, sending him to his death. The cold faced executioner who cared enough for his brother to spy on him for his safety, but not enough to put him before the work of the British Government.

John even returned to his therapist- although there was only so many times she could encourage him gently to express his feelings on everything and anything, and only so many times John had expressed that he did not wish to do so, not quite yet.

After four months John started missing appointments. After four and a half he stopped going altogether.

He resumed a comfortable friendship with Sarah, but never talked to her about Sherlock. The closest she had come to asking him about him was "I know what it's like to lose someone, I'm so sorry, John. You must miss him. " This did not get a response, and seeing a slightly hard look return to Johns face she rapidly changed to subjects to embarrassing patient anecdotes.

He dated often, but seemed to have no more success with his relationships than when Sherlock was around. He always blamed the failure of his previous relationships on Sherlock ...

"_Sherlock, why is it that whenever a girlfriend dumps me, they mention you as a reason?"_

"_Don't be ridiculous John, This particular deterioration in your relationship status has nothing to do with me, it's because you forgot her birthday two days ago and couldn't tell her cats apart."_

...but now he had to admit that something must be off about his dating technique. He'd had seven relationships- well, six because two weekends doesn't count as a relationship, he reminded himself- turn sour in the months since Sherlock's death.

Maybe he wasn't paying them enough attention, he thought. I should keep my diary more up to date. Maybe try online dating.

Maybe it was the fact that he never mentioned Sherlock to any of them, and that they'd found out about his loss through his (un-updated) blog or a mutual acquaintance.

But that was the point, wasn't it? He didn't want to talk. He wanted distracting, a nice soft body to curl up against at night, some comfort and normality.

John sighed, and hung his head. He was up at 3am again, trudging round with sleep in his eyes, fixing himself a cup of tea. Perhaps he was sick of normality. He had been a soldier, and he had been the partner of a consulting detective, danger around every corner. Now, the only danger he felt was the drop in his stomach when he bumped into Greg or Sally in the supermarket.

He switched on the telly, knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for a while, and let the mindless buzz of whatever repeat of a 90's TV show it was wash over him as he sipped his tea.

Yes, John Watson was bloody well sick and tired of Normality.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a year before John actually got anything close to the thrill he missed so much, the thrill that made his heart pound in his chest, the thrill that made mortality very obviously precious to him. He came home one evening to 221B laden with shopping, only to find that the door was slightly ajar. He thought nothing of it- with no danger for a year he wasn't really on the alert, thinking that perhaps Ms Hudson had just forgotten to close it properly (she was getting a bit forgetful these days) and he called out,

" Ms Hudson, the door wasn't locked properly. Is this what they call a senior moment?" but when he wasn't greeted with Ms Hudson's usual _"Yoohoo, in here dear"_ He began to grow concerned. He put down his shopping in the hall and approached the door underneath their- John shook his head, why did he still call it that?- _His_ flat.

It was also ajar, and he fervently hoped that nothing had happened to her, that she was alright because he knew he couldn't, couldn't even contemplate the alternative because it would be another Sherlock and...

His breath drew in as he turned the corner. And he felt Goosebumps erupt on his skin as he saw the chaos that lay strewn about the floor. He had been in this room numerous times before, and was aware that Ms Hudson was a meticulously tidy woman. He moved forwards, on edge now, though it was clear to him no-one else occupied this room, nor the rest of the ground floor flat unless they were being incredibly silent, and the people responsible for this mess...well they looked like noisy people. He glanced around, noticed the missing TV, the smashed cups on the floor, the signs of a hurried search for goods. Burglary then.

John called out again for Ms Hudson but when he got no reply, he proceeded to quickly check the separate kitchenette area, the bathroom, and finally, he paused slightly outside the bedroom. But feeling silly, he reminded himself that Ms Hudson could be in danger, and that surely she would forgive this mishap of etiquette, before barging into that room as well. At first he didn't see her, but then, as he walked closer to the bed he saw her, fragile and neatly dressed, lying face down on the shag pile rug next to her (still remarkably tidy) bed.

"Oh God, no..." his mouth formed the words he had uttered around a year ago- when he had seen another body lying on the ground, broken, bleeding. But he shook the initial terror out of himself- there was no sign of blood, and he did a quick injury assessment.

Unconscious- single blow to the back of the head with a blunt object, looking at the round lump forming there. She had a few scuffs and would probably have a few bruises the next day, but no broken bones. John breathed out. Still, at her age... John found him suddenly immensely angry. Such a blow could have done a lot more damage. To kind-hearted, quick-witted, tea-making Ms Hudson. Affection rose in his chest and his heart beat faster at the thought of what might have come to pass if... But the real reason for his seeing red was not the injustice of the act, it was the fact he knew he wouldn't be able to bring justice to those who had done it.

If Sherlock was here, Sherlock would take one look at the place and be able to track down the bastard- or bastards- who did this.

He quickly banished that thought and called an ambulance- she should go to hospital to recover, he thought, at least so she doesn't have a fit when she sees the state of her living room. He moved her into a more comfortable position, after double checking he hadn't missed any small fractures, and waited with her for the ambulance. She still hadn't stirred, but John knew better than to attempt to rouse her, he might do damage. When he saw flashing lights pull up outside he called the paramedics over, and told them the state he had found her in, and informed them _yes_ he had moved her, but only after he had assessed whether she had any broken bones and _yes_, he was a doctor .

John accompanied her to the hospital. He left his shopping abandoned in the hallway, Ms Hudson was his top priority. It was only when the bumpy ride slowed and the backdoors of the ambulance opened and he was greeted with the white, informal doors of their local hospital that he realised he hadn't even checked 221B, and that of course if Ms Hudson had been robbed, they would probably have made their way into their- his- empty flat. He decided he didn't mind about his TV or his laptop. His main concern were the two relics of Sherlock he allowed on display, the skull on the mantelpiece and his violin. He swallowed.

The violin was very expensive. Most violins are very expensive. Even mindless criminals know that.

He put it to the back of his mind. Ms Hudson, now relocated to a clinically clean hospital bed, was waking up. He reached out a hand and patted her arm. No-one should wake up in hospital alone, John knew that from experience.

He swallowed. He felt idiotic for missing the thrill of danger when it put kind, wonderful people like Ms Hudson in a hospital bed. He felt guilty, as if it were his fault for ever longing for some excitement to break the dull monotony of his Sherlock-less days.

He sighed. This wasn't what he wanted, how could it be- one (possibly two, he reminded himself) broken into apartment, an injured friend and any number of unnameable, untraceable idiots making off with TV's and internet cables and god knows what else. He wanted to catch them, the unknown attackers; he wanted to be running through the side streets and back alleys of London, following that long, grey coat as it whipped round every corner.

It seemed that without Sherlock, and the prospect of finding and punishing the attackers, even danger wasn't what it used to be.


	4. Chapter 4

John spent the night at hospital; he didn't want to leave Ms Hudson. After all, he did know what it felt like; alone in a hospital bed, albeit in the middle of a desert. He slept lightly in a chair at the end of the ward. The next day, he was reminded quite how bad hospital food was. He stayed with her till the evening, and once he had reassured Ms Hudson for a fifth time that it was no trouble at all, she told him to head back to the flat to get some proper rest. He was tired, admittedly, but he wanted to be sure she was going to be absolutely fine before he left. There didn't seem to be any permanent damage, the only remaining sign of trauma was that she kept saying that she felt as if she had forgotten something important.

He got a Taxi back to Baker Street, spending the journey in silence wondering at the state of the flat upon his return. Upon arrival, he paid the Cab driver and looked up grimly to his flat. He let himself in, his sense of dread now overwhelmed by sheer weariness, and as he was clambering heavy footed up to their-_his_- flat his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a text from Mary, his current girlfriend. He felt it was going a bit better than the last dismal attempts at a relationship, probably because he made the effort to pay her more attention, he thought. And, when he did pay attention, he found there wasn't much to dislike, and that she really was quite interesting. In fact, John really had no clue why she agreed to go out with him in the first place. They'd met at a taxi rank, both trying to get home late. In the end they'd shared a cab, because she lived nearby, on Marylebone Road and after an amicable ride home in which John had plenty of time to notice quite how wide her smile was, and how it matched the voluptuous quality of her breasts, he'd asked her to have coffee with him the next day. She was a teacher, and with John being a Doctor he guessed they made a perfectly respectable middle class couple. He glanced at his Inbox:

**Mary [received 7.45pm] : Hey stranger, was hoping to see you tonight, but I guess you must be busy. Let me know when you're free. M xx**

Shit, he hadn't even told her about the burglary, Ms Hudson, anything! And he'd been in the hospital since the previous evening. This must be what his past girlfriends meant about 'communication issues'. He replied:

**John [sent 7.46pm] : Sorry! Been hectic day. Talk v. Soon- give me half an hour. J x**

They had only been together about a month but with John's recent track record that was practically long-term. He was in a much better place compared with how he was last year, and he really was quite keen on Mary. She had this enigmatic energy, seemed constantly cheery, not to mention funny, and she berated John for his 'mainstream' and 'macho' film choices which he found endearing instead of annoying. He felt the same excitement when he received a text from her, that he had felt when he received one from Sherlock. That was in the past, John reminded himself. Mary was real and warm and comforting. Sherlock was...well. John knew where Sherlock was, he visited his grave often enough. He didn't know why he couldn't quite let go of everything perhaps it was the knowing sense of guilt he felt as for a fleeting moment, he questioned it all, as Sherlock looked down on him from that rooftop it had passed with the fall, of course, but by then the damage was done. John couldn't let go, he still wanted to make up for his tiny weakness, his second of doubt, even though he knew, he _knew_ Moriarty was real. No-one could fake being that much of a murdering psychopath all the time without it affecting them mentally. So he kept visiting the grave, and kept a few of Sherlock's things, and kept his fierce pride and possessiveness at any mention of Sherlock's name.

John opened the door to the flat. Ms Hudson had a spare key in her flat, there was no sign of damage to the door itself, indicating that the burglars had either used that, or perhaps John tensed left it alone? It wouldn't do to get his hopes up though, he thought, as he stepped inside.

It was strangely tidy compared with the ransacked quality of Ms Hudson's, however, it had clearly had visitors. He glanced about, taking in what was gone- the telly- well, obvious really given that they had taken Ms Hudson's, his laptop (John inwardly cringed at what they might find on there, but swallowed his pride in the face of more serious matters) and- yes, he had been right, Sherlock's violin was missing. A few of the books from the shelves- odd, because if the burglars were looking for valuables, he was pretty sure none of the books he or Sherlock ever owned were expensive- and there was also a ring of dust around where his savings jar used to be. John sighed. There wasn't much he could do about it now, except from recount to the police what had happened. He wondered whether anyone he knew would be investigating the break in. He really hoped Donovan had nothing to do with it. But then- wasn't really their division, was it? He thought.

Once he got into his bedroom he rang Mary and explained what had gone on, recounting the events quickly, as she was rather tired. She listened with concern, enquiring about Ms Hudson's health and making sympathetic noises at john's losses from the flat.

"But where are you now?" She asked.

"Oh, at home." John replied.

"Really? But isn't it a crime scene? Shouldn't the police be round, asking you questions about what was taken, where from, and whether you have CCTV, stuff like that?"

John went to answer, then stopped. It was a bit odd. "Erm, do you know what, I don't know. Maybe they did all that earlier. I'm not really familiar with burglaries. I used to go with Sherlock to crime scenes, but not minor things like this, I don't really know the procedure".

"Well my friend Janet got robbed the other month- Sky set top box, all her kids video games and her credit cards- police wouldn't leave her alone, she said. Round there in an instant, wouldn't stop asking her questions, and they say they still don't know who did it. It is rather odd that no-one's even come to check the flat, isn't it?"

"I- Yeah- maybe." He considered this. "I'll give the police a ring in the morning, see if they've been round, or what's happening. I'm pretty shattered at the moment so I think I'll just..."

"You off to sleep? Okay then. You know you're welcome to come stay at mine don't you? I'm still up, and if you need comforting..." He heard her smile through the inflection of her voice.

"Don't tempt me" John replied. "But I wouldn't be much fun tonight I'm afraid, I'm too tired and too distracted".

They said their good nights and John put the phone down. It was only as he got into bed that he realised what he had lost. Another set of memories linked to the violin; it seemed too precious to throw away, or box up. And now, like Sherlock, that was gone too. He tried to remind himself of the comforting quality of Mary's voice as he hugged the duvet cover closer, sleep overtaking disembodied thoughts that turned into memories that turned into dreams.


End file.
